When I speak,
my eyebrows tell their own story,
filling in the details.
Even when I try my hand
at tact, striving for
porcelain politeness,
my eyebrows loiter in dark corners,
gossiping.

Living with two feral beasts
on one’s face
requires discipline
just short of a chainsaw.

In private I must
chisel & furrow,
for these miniature sculptures,
these Michelangelo topiaries.

This isn’t vanity.
This is protecting a pious public
from a lecherous, libidinous wolf.

For me, leaving the house and
participating in pleasantries,
daily interactions, is enough of a
Leviathan leech loading my back
without seditionist caterpillars
millimeters from munching my eyes out.

It’s for me that I tweeze,
for one only PLUCKS chickens,
that row of hair
which runs the length of my brow.
For me, for my comfort in
social negotiations.

I also do it for you,
if only to keep you from
flinching in fear
as my eyebrows defy
my utmost efforts
at not offending you.